


Hand-In-Hand

by interlude



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: 4x04 coda, Claustrophobia, Emori is still haunted by Baylis, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Lots of talk of A.L.I.E., Murphy is still haunted by the Lighthouse, Murphy-centric, PTSD, Panic Attacks, science island
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-18 09:32:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11871504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/interlude/pseuds/interlude
Summary: After the events of 4x04, Emori and Murphy explore Becca's mansion, where Murphy struggles with memories of A.L.I.E. and the Lighthouse. But luckily, this time Emori's there.





	Hand-In-Hand

**Author's Note:**

> Requested by nicoleanell on tumblr!
> 
> Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated!

 

 

When they finally reach Becca’s lab, the sight of it stops them all up short. A captivated hush falls over the group, and no one moves for a moment, struck motionless with wonder, until Raven lets out an excited whoop and it shatters. She hurries down the steps to the main floor, face bright with an excited grin. Her off-beat, heavy steps clang loudly through the silent room and jar everyone back into reality. Abby and Jackson move first. They follow closely at her heels, and the three of them examine the equipment as they pass, taking stock of what they have to work with.

 

Even Miller and the two guards, who Murphy hasn’t bothered learning the names of, are completely absorbed in their new setting. Miller glances around with raised eyebrows, letting out a low, impressed whistle.

 

With the white walls and the many lights, the lab looks bright and inviting, clean and new – and as different from the Ark as possible. To those born in space, it’s like nothing they’ve ever seen before.

 

Maybe that’s why Emori is the only one who doesn’t look instantly taken with it. Unlike the others, she hovers close to the door, warily taking in the lab and the rest of the group – searching for possible threats and exits. She’s hunched in on herself as if trying to make herself smaller, arms wrapped securely around her chest like a shield, mutated hand tucked under her other arm and out of sight. She’s scared and unsure, coiled tight like a cornered rabbit.

 

Murphy makes his way to her side and gently lays a hand on her shoulder. “Hey,” he says, softly so the others won’t overhear them. She glances at him briefly, then back towards the lab. Her muscles are tense beneath his hand. “The mansion is near here.” He looks back at the rest of the group. Miller and the nameless guards have wandered deeper into the lab, further away from them. Nobody is paying any attention to the two tagalong outcasts in the corner. “Want to see it?”

 

Emori hesitates to answer, and Murphy waits, patiently. He can tell she’s weighing the options, debating if she’d feel more comfortable away from the others completely or keeping them in her sight. Finally, she nods. He slips his hand into hers and tugs her gently from the room, up the stairs, and into the afternoon sunshine.

 

With the drones disabled, the island forest is truly beautiful. The trees are full and green, and sunlight filters in through the leaves, spilling onto the forest floor down below. All around them, birds whistle and sing a cheery tune from the branches. In the distance, they can just barely make out the sound of slow crashing waves along the beach. The smell of salt water drifts forward on the breeze.

 

Emori looks immensely more at ease, here. She holds her head higher and her back straighter, and her left-hand swings freely beside her, no longer tucked away and out of sight. Even so, she's far from being completely relaxed. She watches the forest carefully for threats and turns to assess every far-off sound. Frequently, her hand drifts towards the knife at her belt, and every once in a while, she turns to glance behind them, searching the trees.

 

Murphy has to admit even he breathes easier out of sight of the others. Fitting back in with the Arkadians feels like trying to shove a mismatched puzzle piece into the wrong place, but walking beside Emori is comfortable and easy, like taking a deep breath of fresh air. Maybe it’s just Emori rubbing off on him, but he’s growing more used to living in nature than in buildings.

 

Eventually, they enter the clearing. The mansion stands before them, as large and impressive as Murphy remembers. Emori sucks in a surprised breath beside him. “You’ve been here before?”

 

“Yeah, I found it after I got out of the bunker,” he explains, trying not to dwell on that particular memory. “Jaha was here. And A.L.I.E.”

 

Emori flinches at her name – just slightly, though it would be hard to notice if he weren’t standing directly next to her and watching her carefully. Murphy doesn’t mention it. He knows the pain that A.L.I.E. caused her is fresh and tender – a wound that’s still healing – and sometimes he doesn’t know how to help it heal faster. Sometimes he feels useless.

 

Murphy gestures towards the mansion, and they walk towards it.

 

“I’ve never been this far inland,” Emori explains. “A.L.I.E spoke to us in the drones, but we always traded with Gideon on the beach. I never even saw her until,” she pauses, her eyes going glassy with unwanted memories, then chokes down some unwanted emotion and continues, “until I took the chip. I thought she was beautiful. Beautiful but strange. I’ve never seen anyone who looked like her before.”

 

“Yeah,” Murphy agrees. A.L.I.E had looked strange to him, too, and not just because of her inhuman movements or expressionless face – or the way she never quite looked you in the eye. He’d never seen clothing that bright on the Ark, or makeup that red; he doesn’t know if A.L.I.E. was designed to blend in with the old people of Earth – if that was how people had always looked before the bombs – or if she had always stood out as different.

 

At the front door, they both pause, watching it like a slumbering beast, hesitant and half-afraid. A.L.I.E. may be gone, but she lingers over everything like the aftershocks of a terrible nightmare.

 

The mansion reminds Murphy of the Lighthouse. His skin crawls. He swears he hears the echo of the door slamming or the gunshot or A.L.I.E.’s calm voice saying, “Too many people.” He thinks he might throw up.

 

Emori has always been braver than him. He watches as she visibly shakes off her fear, steps forward and pushes against the door. It swings open easily, revealing the long hallway behind it.

 

“A.L.I.E. lived here?” she asks.

 

“Yeah,” Murphy’s voice trails off as he eyes the spot he first saw her, almost expecting her to reappear. He’s starting to regret suggesting they come to the mansion. His hands clench tighter around his gun.

 

Watching his movements, Emori tenses as well. “Is it safe?” she asks. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees her begin to draw her knife.

 

Murphy forces himself to relax, though he doesn’t drop his guard. “She’s gone, and Raven disarmed the drones. I think we’re safe.”

 

Emori nods. She still looks wary, but she sheathes her knife again and drops her hand, then moves past him and down the hallway. Murphy follows her, flipping lights on as he goes, holding his gun ever ready, just in case. They stay silent after that, listening for noises in the large house. There’s nothing to be heard, except for their quiet breathing and their echoing footsteps.

 

Every few feet deeper into the mansion, Murphy glances over his shoulder – back towards the open front door, through which he can still see the bright sunshine and blue sky, the green grass, and the forest in the distance.

 

Freedom.

 

With every step away from it, he feels his breathing come a little harder, his muscles grow a little tenser. He remembers suddenly that the others don’t know where they are, and even if they had known where they were headed, Murphy’s the only one who has any idea where the mansion is. No one else on the island is even aware there is a mansion. If the doors slam shut and the mansion traps them in here, no one will come looking for them.

 

He halts abruptly in the hallway, just feet from where it opens up into a massive room. He feels like he can’t breathe, like there’s a noose around his neck again, tugging tighter. There’s a heavy pressure pressing hard against his chest, crushing his lungs, cracking his ribcage. His heart beats frantically beneath it.

 

 _The bitch is gone_ , he tells himself – but it’s hard to believe. He wants to make a run for it – to sprint back towards the door to freedom and out of this house and –

 

“What’s the purpose of this?” Emori’s voice snaps him back into the present, and he turns around to see her in the open room. She’s standing at a table in the center, surrounded with couches and chairs. In her hands is a small humanoid statue made of gold.

 

Murphy collects himself and shrugs. The reminder of Emori’s presence is soothing, and he fights back the memories as he moves further from the door – closer to her. He still feels on edge, his skin jittery and sparking like electricity, but he uses her voice and her steady breathing to anchor himself in the present. _This isn’t the Lighthouse_ , he reminds himself.

 

“Decoration?” he guesses.

 

Emori looks utterly baffled. “Why?”

 

He shrugs again. “I don’t know.” The mansion is filled with pointless items that have no apparent use beyond decoration. Murphy’s never seen so much junk in his life. There was very little kept on the Ark that didn’t have an obvious purpose.

 

“My mom kept this old picture from Earth in our room on the Ark,” he says, voice slow and soft as he unearths the old memory.

 

Emori turns away from the statue in her hands, focusing on him. Murphy rarely talks about his life before Earth. When he does, she treats every detail like something precious and important. Like **he’s** important. It almost makes the memories less painful to exhume.

 

“It didn’t have any real purpose,” Murphy continues. “We don’t even know who took it or where it was taken from; Mom just traded for it with someone from Mecha because she liked how it looked.”

 

“What was in the picture?” Emori asks, her voice gentle and almost reverent.

 

“Mountains. And trees. A blue sky. I used to look at it and try to imagine what living on Earth would be like. You couldn’t keep a lot on the Ark. Supplies got passed out based on need and you weren’t allowed to keep much that didn’t have a purpose. But the photograph was small, and the guards let us have it. Mom loved it. She used to say it made our place homier.”

 

A lump grows in his throat with every word. He can still picture the photograph so easily – and beside it, his mother’s face, and his father, eyes twinkling – before he pulls himself roughly away from the image and throws the memory back in some dusty corner of his mind.

 

He doesn’t add that his mother later ripped it up when she was drunk – or that throwing away the pieces had felt like something final. Like the end of something.

 

“I kept jewelry, sometimes,” Emori says. She turns the sculpture over in her hands again. “Jewelry’s easy to carry with you, so it wasn’t a problem. I’ve never stayed anywhere long enough to hold onto useless things just for decoration.” She scoffs at the room and the sculpture in her hands, mouth twisting distastefully at it. She sets it back down on the table, and it lands against the wood with a soft thud.

 

“You probably can’t even trade half of this stuff,” she says dismissively as she moves out of the room. “Who wants something that has no purpose?”

 

“Guess it was different before the bombs,” Murphy says.

 

They make their way through the house, peeking into every room as they go. In one of them, Murphy recognizes the couch he woke up on. The empty glass is still sitting on table beside it, covered in a thin layer of dust.

 

There are two bedrooms on the first floor, both of which Emori has little interest in, but Murphy gets excited about. She may have grown up sleeping on cave floors and the ground outdoors, but he’s ready to have a real bed again.

 

Emori is fascinated by the bathrooms, though. She eyes the shower and faucet speculatively when she enters the first, and curiously turns one of the sink handles. When clean water spills out, she laughs, utterly delighted, a cheerful noise that echoes through the little room. She sticks her hand in it, testing it, then ducks her head under and takes several large gulps. When she pops up again, the ends of her hair slightly damp, she grins widely at him, and Murphy feels himself smiling in response. It’s the first time she’s looked anything but terrified and wary on the island. And if she’s this excited about the sink, he can’t wait to show her the shower later.

 

Emori’s response to the mansion changes, after that. She loses some of her wariness, though he knows her well enough to know she’s never completely relaxed, and approaches the rest of the mansion with more excitement. Her lifting mood helps Murphy shake off his nightmares, too.

 

Eventually, they step into another large, open room. On the far side, it’s lined with glass doors, and through it, Murphy can once again see the forest trees. The light is fading outside, the sun slowly sinking below the horizon. He wonders how long they’ve been in here – or if the others have even noticed yet.

 

Emori trails her hand along the countertops as she moves further into the room. “What’s the purpose of this room?” she wonders aloud, opening cabinets and peaking inside.

 

Murphy grabs a book sitting on the counter and flips through it. It’s filled with pictures of food and what he thinks are recipes. “I think it’s a kitchen,” he answers, then looks up, eyeing the room with amazement. “I’ve never seen one this big though. The one on the Ark was pretty cramped.” He’d been in it only once – the one time he had dared trade with Nygel for food, since his mother had traded their rations for alcohol for the third time that week and he was eight years old and hungry.

 

“A kitchen?” Emori asks, testing out the unfamiliar word. She turns a knob on what Murphy thinks is a stove, and a fire sparks up under the coils immediately. Emori flinches, shocked, then stares at it with curiosity. He can see the gears turning in her head before he can answer her, and a grin stretches wide across her face, coloring her words as she says, “For cooking?” She turns the knob further, watching with delight as the flame grows in response. “You just put the food on top of the metal,” she notes, gesturing towards the coils. “It’s so simple.”

 

“There’s recipes, too,” Murphy grins, holding up the book. He’s been skimming the page he landed on, and it calls for more ingredients than he’s ever heard of in his life, but he imagines it has to taste better than anything that was ever served on the Ark.

 

“Recipes?” Emori ask. She turns the burner off and comes to read over his shoulder. Murphy wraps an arm around her waist and tugs her closer into his side, tracing gentle circles into her hip while she flips through the book.

 

“We should make some of these,” he suggests. The dish Emori’s landed on looks incredible – whatever it is. Murphy thinks it involves chicken. He tried chicken in Polis. It was incredible – better than the stringy panther meat the delinquents had eaten in the camp, or the equally stringy rabbit meat he usually ate with Emori on the road – though both were far better than anything he had ever had on the Ark. His mouth waters just looking at the picture.

 

“I don’t know how,” Emori argues. She trails at hand over the picture, her face vulnerable with obvious want. Murphy might have grown up eating manufactured protein on the Ark, and will win hands-down for worst meals ever eaten, but Emori hasn’t had much better. She’s never had the chance to try anything like what he had in Polis – only what she and Otan could make for themselves.

 

Murphy decides that he’s going to learn how to make this dish, somehow. For her. Whatever it takes.

 

Emori pulls herself away from the book, and gently separates herself from Murphy’s side. He dog-ears the page to find again later and is glancing over it one more time when he hears the quiet squeak of a cabinet door opening, then Emori’s surprised gasp. His blood runs cold with fear, and he whips his head up to locate her in the room. She’s standing next to the open door of a small closet off to the side of the kitchen - perfectly safe.

 

“John, look,” she calls, giddy in a way he rarely hears her. “Food!” Emori laughs, incredulous and elated in equal parts, and pulls a plastic container free from the closet – the pantry, maybe? – to show him. It’s filled with some sort of grain, still edible-looking despite how many centuries it’s been sitting here untouched. Emori shakes it enthusiastically, then laughs again at the rattling sound it makes.

 

The sound of her laugh fills him with joy, and he can’t help laughing in response. She’s like a child, suddenly, excited and carefree in a way he’s never seen before, and he swears his heart swells to nearly bursting in response, butting against the side of his ribcage and filling his chest. He wants to bottle this moment up somehow, preserve her joy and laughter, because life is rarely so kind – especially to them.

 

Emori puts the container back and grabs a box. “There’s so much of it,” she says, ripping through the cardboard. She pulls a cracker out – similar to the ones he found in the Lighthouse – and after giving it a wary sniff, shoves it in her mouth. She groans with contentment as she chews, and Murphy’s stomach growls– they haven’t eaten well in a while, not since most of the forest animals disappeared. Emori grins at him around the cracker and passes the box over without a word.

 

They eat through half the box before they keep exploring. Emori grabs a few other items from the pantry and stashes them in her clothes before they leave the kitchen. She also brings the half-eaten box of crackers along with her, and they continue snacking on them as they head upstairs.

 

They find the largest bedroom on the second floor. It’s massive, with a sitting room off to the side and a private bathroom attached. The bed is huge and inviting, adorned with several fluffy, white pillows. Everything in the room is white, still clean and neat looking despite the years, and so different from the bedrooms on the Ark.

 

For a brief moment, Murphy’s overcome with anger at the sight of it. His family’s entire quarters on the Ark could fit in this one room at least four times – with room to spare – and the thought of one person living here – one person using this whole mansion – almost makes him sick. He thinks he would hate Becca if he ever really met her, because he hates people with more than they need – wasteful people.

 

But Becca is long gone, and Murphy’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Besides, it’s high time they get to live in luxury. He jumps up on the bed, stretching out comfortably. It feels like heaven, better than a cave floor or the desert sand. Better than his old crappy cot in the Ark and the even worse one in the Skybox. He feels like he’s floating on a cloud, and his muscles relax as he lets himself sink into it. His dirty boots are probably leaving streaks across the white blanket, but he doesn’t care.

 

Emori watches him from the doorway, one eyebrow raised and her lips pulled up in a grin. He reaches out a hand for her. “Come on. Join me,” he urges and her grin grows.

 

She hops onto the bed and cuddles into his side. Murphy pulls her close, tucking her head under his chin and wrapping her up in his arms. Emori relaxes with a sigh, and the tension she’s held all day bleeds out of her. “I think I understand the appeal in these now,” she says.

 

Murphy laughs. “Let the others have the lab. This is where we’re staying tonight.” Emori hums happily. “And tomorrow, I’m going to learn how to cook in that kitchen.”

 

“I’ll enjoy watching you try,” Emori says with a grin.

 

He pokes her in the side, and she sucks in a surprised breath and squirms away from him. “You don’t think I can do it?”

 

Emori snorts a laugh. “John, I had to teach you how to cook rabbit.” She dodges away from him when he tries to poke her stomach again, laughing.

 

“Just wait. I’m going to cook you the best damn meal of your life and you’re going to have to eat it _and_ your words.” He tries to poke her side once more, and this time, she easily catches his hand in the air, holding it still. She threads her fingers through his and all the fight in him, lighthearted and fake as it was, disappears. He brings their hands up to his face and gently kisses her knuckles, then leans forward and kisses her mouth.

 

Emori grins. He can feel it underneath his lips. She pushes forward to meet him, and they spend several minutes trading lazy kisses.

 

It’s pleasant and comfortable, and he feels safe and content – so when the sudden thought _is the door still open?_ comes unbidden to his mind, it’s jarring enough to make him pause and pull away from Emori to check. It is, but he can’t chase away the panic that it won’t stay that way. The fear that’s been biting at his heels all day has finally caught up with him and sunk its sharp teeth deep into him. _If you look away again, even for a moment_ , his fear whispers, _the door will close._

A hand strokes tenderly up and down his arm. “What’s wrong?” Emori asks. Murphy moves to shake his head and pretend he’s fine, because he doesn’t want to admit that he’s afraid, or that the Lighthouse has stuck with him this long still. Emori refuses to listen to his bullshit. She adds before he can say anything, “You’ve been uncomfortable since we got here. John, what’s wrong?”

 

He should have known she’d notice, not only because Emori’s an incredibly observant person, but because she knows him better than anybody.

 

Murphy turns to face her. “I’m afraid,” he chokes out. The words are unfamiliar on his tongue. He's never dared speak them aloud before - he's never wanted to give them so much power - but it’s like Emori’s breaking him open and unraveling his secrets and his hidden pieces in all their ugly, jagged splendor. Like she always does. Heat blooms in his cheeks, and his chest burns with humiliation, but there’s no judgement in Emori’s face as she watches him – only tenderness, and it still amazes him to see it directed his way. He thinks it’s that look that opens his mouth and spills his secrets. “That the doors will lock and trap us in here.”

 

Her eyes light up with understanding – she knows the story of the Lighthouse, though not the worst of it, because he’s never been able to talk about the gun and she’s never pried.

 

Emori looks past him to study the door. She kisses him gently, then pulls herself away and stands up. He has to force himself not to grab onto her arm and pull her back. The room feels much colder without her beside him. Some part of him aches. _You’re weak and she’s leaving_ , the fear taunts. _She’s going to leave the mansion, and then the doors with shut and you’ll be trapped here. Alone._

 

But Emori doesn’t leave the room. Instead, she grabs hold of the table next to the bed and pushes it into place between the doors, wedging it up against one so they’ll stay open. Then she moves to the window, unlocks the latch, and opens it. She leans out of it to look below them. He thinks maybe she’s judging how safe it would be to leave it open, and he knows it would be far safer not to, but Emori leaves it open anyways.

 

She kicks off her boots, then gently pulls off Murphy’s as well, and lays both pairs at the end of the bed. Then she lies back down beside him and cuddles closer once more, pulling her knife free from its sheath and laying it on the mattress next to her head, just to be safe. “There,” she says, and wraps her arms around him.

 

Something in him snaps. The tears come fast and sudden. He buries his face into her neck as he sobs, and he feels weak and pathetic, filled with shame and self-loathing, because he should be stronger than this. But his body betrays him, shaking and buzzing with fear, and he can do nothing but cry and clutch at Emori’s clothes, twisting the fabric in his hands. He thinks that he’s not just crying about the Lighthouse, but for every single thing he’s buried deep within him and never let out. 

 

Emori holds him tight through all of it, stroking his arms. She’s not the best at comfort – like him she’s never really learned how – but in this moment, all he needs is for her to hold him tight and not leave.

 

When his sobs finally grow quiet, she speaks. “I’m scared Baylis will find me again.” Murphy’s heard of Baylis. He’s never hated anyone the way he hates Baylis. “I’m always afraid of that,” Emori continues, her voice a whisper. It wavers slightly.

 

“If he finds you, I won’t let him hurt you,” Murphy promises, voice rough and scratchy. It’s the only thing he can think to say, but he means it completely. He would sooner die than let Baylis touch Emori again.

 

“I won’t let anyone lock you up again,” Emori whispers back. There’s not much she can do if someone stronger than her tries, and he knows he’d never let her put herself in harm to save him anyways, but he breathes easier just knowing that she would try – that she cares enough to try.

 

Murphy holds her tighter, as if she’ll float away from him if he loses his hold on her. Emori raises a hand to his head and runs her fingers through his hair. For the first time in a long while, he feels safe and loved. He hopes desperately that he makes her feel the same.

 

There’s a chance, however small, that A.L.I.E. may come back tomorrow. Or Baylis. It won’t be long before some new threat rears its ugly head. But Emori’s standing strong beside him, and they’re a team. They’ll face whatever the world throws at them hand-in-hand.

 

**Author's Note:**

> A lot of the inspiration for Murphy's panic attack is taken from my own experiences. I tried to explain it best I could.
> 
> Cheesy ending is cheesy.


End file.
